


Day 16: Family traditions

by ConsultingPurplePants



Series: 25 Days of Fic-Mas (originally posted to tumblr) [16]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Family Tradition, I like proposal fics too much, M/M, proposal fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-16
Updated: 2015-12-16
Packaged: 2018-05-07 03:30:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5441816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConsultingPurplePants/pseuds/ConsultingPurplePants
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the Watson family tradition.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Day 16: Family traditions

**Author's Note:**

> I've just realized the final prompt is "Christmas morning," and that basically all of these fics involve Christmas morning in some way already. Shit.

John’s parents had both passed away five years ago. They had loved each other very much, and had died within days of each other. After the funeral, Sherlock had come with him to his childhood home to help him organize their things, and that was how he had found out. Sherlock had pulled a tiny, velvety jewelry box out from his mother’s night stand and had curiously pulled it open to reveal John’s mother’s engagement ring inside, a tiny golden thing with a sparkling diamond set atop it. John had smiled at him from across the room, his grief at his parents’ deaths lifting slightly at the curious expression he had come to love over the past year. Sherlock had inspected every aspect of the ring, no doubt trying to ascertain if John had told him the truth about the state of his parents’ marriage. After having a look inside, he had glanced up at John, surprised, and said, “You never told me your parents got married on Christmas.”

John had gone back to packing his own box, smiling at the memory of his father explaining the family tradition to him. _Every man in this family gets engaged on Christmas day, Johnny. It’s been that way for ten generations of Watsons, and don’t you forget it._ He could even recall the twinkle in his father’s eye as he had patted him on the head and turned back to whatever had been cooking on the stove at the time.

“Engaged,” he had corrected, “Every Watson man has gotten engaged on Christmas day for the past 10 generations.” _And don’t you forget it._ Sherlock had looked puzzled at this, then gone back to inspecting the ring. John had smiled fondly at him, something about this moment making him give too much away, and his eyes had caught Sherlock’s gaze over the top of the ring, and that had been John’s first hint that maybe he could have this. But then Sherlock had jumped off a building and faffed off to parts unknown for two years, John had gotten engaged to an assassin (not on Christmas day, which should have been his first sign, ten generations of Watsons rolling over in their graves), and everything had gone downhill from there.

And now, as he carefully places a different (but equally important) tiny, velvety jewelry box under the Christmas tree in 221B, he thinks about how much has changed in the past two years. After Mary had left with the baby (which, as it turns out, wasn’t even his), he had moved back in with Sherlock for good. He had tried to restrain himself, but he had lasted about a week before a post-case adrenaline high had had him shoving Sherlock against the sitting room door as he kissed him with a desperation he had not known he possessed. Sherlock had responded in kind, but it had taken several more post-case adrenaline highs for them to finally admit their feelings for each other. Now, the upstairs bedroom (which, Mrs. Hudson was right, they won’t be needing) has been turned into a more elaborate home laboratory for the experiments that John has deemed unsafe for the kitchen. All of his clothes are in a second wardrobe in what is now their bedroom (since Sherlock still needs all the space in his), and every now and again he opens it up to find that his socks have been indexed first by colour, then by brand, then by personal preference, which Sherlock somehow knows. Sherlock, on the other hand, sometimes opens his wardrobe to find that his socks have been reorganized by what makes John laugh the most, which of course makes John laugh quite a lot, but gets Sherlock quite cross. They share a bed nearly every night (Sherlock sleeps much more now that he has someone to sleep with) and wake up tangled in each other nearly every morning, and John wouldn’t have it any other way. Or at least, would have it only one other way.

He carefully rearranges the little box so that Sherlock won’t be able to miss it when they come into the sitting room again in about half an hour. He intends to pad quietly back to bed and hope Sherlock hasn’t noticed, but he’s barely halfway there when the door creaks open.

A sleepy, curly head pokes its way out the door. “John? Where did you go?”

John laughs and musses his hair. “Can’t you deduce it, genius?”

“Too tired,” Sherlock mumbles, his nose scrunching adorably, and John can’t help himself. He reaches up and places a kiss on the tip of Sherlock’s scrunched up nose.

“Want to go back to bed, then?”

Sherlock shakes his head and drags himself from the room, wearing the blue silk dressing gown and a pair of old pyjama bottoms. “No. You were rearranging the gifts, but you put something new under the tree. You’ve messed with my system, I had deduced them all already.” He stalks off down the hallway, John grinning behind him.

“Exactly, which is why I made sure to place this one last!”

Sherlock harrumphs as he reaches the tree, sitting down hard in front of it and dragging John down with him so that they’re both sitting cross-legged, facing each other. He inspects the small pile of gifts, clearly searching for the one that wasn’t there before. John whistles absently at the ceiling, trying to avoid giving himself away too soon. It’s a testament to how sleepy Sherlock is that it takes him a full thirty seconds to find the new package.

“Aha!” He snatches it triumphantly from under the tree, holding it aloft, then nearly dropping it when he realizes what it is. His sleepiness means that the whole deductive process is slowed down, and John can follow each thought on his face as it flits by. Tiny, velvety box ( _Jewelry_ ), Sherlock doesn’t wear any jewelry other than cuff links ( _Box is wrong_ ), only thing left that would fit in that box ( _Ring_ ), what’s the date ( _Christmas day, ten generations of Watsons_ ), only logical conclusion ( _John is going to propose_ ). John watches as the string of deductions comes to an end and Sherlock is left gaping at John in shock, despite the fact that they’ve basically been married for the better part of two years. The shock is showing no sign of receding, so John plucks the box from Sherlock’s fingers and turns it around to face him as he opens it. Sherlock’s eyes fall on the gold band, embossed with a honeycomb pattern, and his jaw drops impossibly further.

“Sherlock.” John places two fingers under Sherlock’s chin to lift Sherlock’s eyes to his own. Their gazes lock.

“We’ve wasted enough time, don’t you think?” Sherlock’s mouth has finally closed and he looks solemnly at John. He gives a tiny nod.

“Will you marry me?”

A desperate sound tears from Sherlock’s throat as he launches himself at John, kissing him with the same desperation as John had that first night. John reaches up to pull him closer, tighter, as he kisses back, tangling his fingers in Sherlock’s hair and breathing him in. They kiss breathlessly, drowning in each other, until Sherlock tears himself away just far enough to breathe _Yesyesyesyes_ into John’s lips. John feels his eyes start to sting, and he pulls at Sherlock’s hand until Sherlock understands and holds it out so John can put the ring on his fourth finger.

John pulls Sherlock close, and they sit there, wrapped in each other, as time seems to slow down. The Christmas morning sun streams in through the windows, its shining rays bouncing off the honeycomb indentations in the ring to shine all around the sitting room. And even though the rest of the presents don’t get opened until much later, John knows that eleven generations of Watsons are perfectly at peace.


End file.
